Just Inspector Will Do
by aragonite
Summary: Friendship fic for KCS. How in the world do you demonstrate honest affection for the Great Detective? post-Reichenbach


For KCS. Friendship fic

**After the events of May 1991**: Paddington Station

She was no stranger to the crushing sense of defeat that tragedy inspired. Small and delicate-looking—delicate _within_, too, she knew—Mary Watson was still strong in spirit.

She was not completely aware of this; what she thought of as simple decency required much more courage than the average person was willing to take.

And so she waited for the train that would bring her husband home, standing against the pillar, and knew the ache in her legs would become severe soon enough, but to sit in one of the soot-crusted benches was more than she could take at the moment. _I should have come earlier_, she mourned to herself. _I could have at least bought one of the papers_…then she thought of what the papers might say, and stifled a swallow.

"Mrs. Watson?"

Mary blinked and jumped, shocked at being witnessed in her behavior. She wasn't certain she knew the man; not through the watery curtain in her eyes. He was soberly dressed and another man stood just behind him—she couldn't make _him _out at all in the cloudy night air. The passing crowd flowed and stumbled against a third man, then a fourth. They were dressed neatly and carefully, but there was a unity to their overall look that set them apart from the rest.

Mary Watson blinked her eyes clear; her face ran wet and the first man wordlessly produced a clean handkerchief. She wiped her cheeks, then had to do it again. As she watched, plainclothed men were slowly filing themselves through the congested crowd, blocking the worst of the traffic with their bodies until she was left in a breathing-spot by the bench.

"We heard the news, Mrs. Watson." Her spokesman said. Despite the marks of what must have been a terribly long day on his dustcoat and face, his eyes were warm and kind. "Please accept the condolences of Scotland Yard. Your husband has lost a fine friend."

A hollow box had assembled; Mary realized there really were more Constables, strolling with their truncheons and clopping their heavy boots than needed be. She blinked, and wondered how many people on the train station _weren't_ policemen.

"He was the best man at my wedding." Mary stammered. His handkerchief was all but useless shreds now.

The man smiled. He was so tired his eyes were bloodshot. "I remember," he said softly.

Mary put two and two together. Her eyes narrowed slightly in thought. "I…_you_ were at my wedding too." She blushed. "I'm so sorry…I didn't recognize…" Behind her the whistle of a train one mile from the station was shrilling. It swallowed up her attempt to speak and she fell silent, abashed.

"Not at all." He touched the brim of his day-battered hat with his fingers. "I believe we were _all _at your wedding…well, save poor Irons; I think _he _was down with the shingles, or something like that." He paused. His lips twisted. Despite the sadness of the occasion, his face was wry, viewing the world in equal parts sadness and gentle humor. "We weren't going to miss the sight of Mr. Holmes _at a wedding,_ Mrs. Watson. It was a bit of an historical occasion. Always swore he'd _never _attend one, even if Wagner was playing."

Mary smiled as the lump swelled her throat. she agreed, but the idea of Wagner at a wedding was enough to make her laugh. "He...he even managed to pretend he didn't mind being the best man for a few minutes," One of the men had covered the bench with his coat; he offered it with a silent little bow and she hesitantly took it; her aching body sighed in relief. "He cared for John that much,"

"We can understand that." The man nodded; he glanced about to make certain everyone was in formation. "Mr. Holmes would have never accepted any gesture of friendship, Mrs. Watson…consider this our chance to show our respect."

"Thank you, Mr..?" Mary sniffed. "Inspector?"

"Just…Inspector." He smiled. "Inspector will do."

-

Minutes later, John Watson peered out the window, looking anxiously for his wife while hoping against hope that she had _not _taxed herself by coming out. Steam and night-air mixed and clamboured against his face and in his ears. The lantern-light threw pools of watery yellow shadow on the scarred platform.

At first he wondered if there had been some mistake; the pools of yellow spread and shifted, ran into each other as more pools emerged.

Then the lights began to rise.

Watson's mouth dropped open.

His wife sat, safe and protected from the worst of the railroad fumes within a dancing bouquet of fire. Balls of oily flame depended from hoops inside held in each gloved hand, until the platform was full of tired and footsore men, uniformed and plainclothed, waiting patiently for his return.

And Watson thought that while Holmes had been the client of kings and cardinals, they had _only _known accolades and praises. And the next morning, when Holmes' solicitor asked about the funeral eulogy, Watson answered truthfully it had already been given.


End file.
